


Hell's Kitchen

by CaptainKenway



Category: Adam Levine (Musician), Blake Shelton (Musician), Hell's Kitchen (US TV) RPF, The Voice (US) RPF, The Voice RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hell's Kitchen, Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 14:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9185339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainKenway/pseuds/CaptainKenway
Summary: This serving job was the same as any other except this one had pitchfork décor, a camera crew, not nearly experienced enough chefs, and a fuming Gordon Ramsay. Thinking back, this might’ve not been the best place for Blake to wait tables for the first time.





	

Jean-Philippe was mid-lecture when Adam noticed Blake blatantly not paying attention. His boyfriend stood in awe of the studio, gawping like the country bumpkin he was. Not that Adam blamed him. It was impressive how each season Fox turned a blank slate into two fully functional kitchens with an elaborate dining set up.

The servers, led by Jean-Philippe, broke into applause, breaking Blake’s stupor and Adam’s unsubtle observation. Adam half-heartedly joined in.

“Let’s make it a great dining experience, ladies and gentlemen,” Jean-Philippe said. Then the Belgian turned to talk to an equally dressed up blonde producer and the servers—“the silent gears of the evening” as Jean-Philippe was annoyingly fond of saying—were immediately forgotten.

Blake shifted as some servers broke from the pack and the others lingered by the wall. He forced a smile when Adam turned, though his twitching fingers and sweaty forehead effectively ruined his attempt at nonchalance. 

“You feeling alright?” Adam asked. He straightened Blake’s blue tie because that seemed like the boyfriend-y thing to do and Blake’s face drained of color at an alarming rate.

“Fantastic,” Blake squeaked, gaze lingering on the prominent pitchfork on the wall. He cleared his throat. “Just, you know, starting my first job as a server at Hell’s Kitchen. No biggie.”

“Your first serving job?” a nearby brunette server repeated.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Janet,” Christina said, her hair restrained in a sleek ponytail. She stepped neatly around the scowling server and handed Blake a glass of water. “He’ll be fine.”

Janet stalked away, muttering to two nearby servers as Blake gulped the water gratefully.

“Blake will be fine, won’t he?” Christina asked.

“Course, I vouched for him,” Adam said.

“And you’re not biased at all,” Christina said. Adam ignored her as he smoothed his black serving apron.

Christina and Adam met while waiting tables on season 2 of Hell’s Kitchen and, after their insanely intense competitive streak that never quite disappeared, bonded over being struggling musicians in LA. Blake had a semi-consistent job wrangling animals for Hollywood productions. Of course, that job was sporadic the best of times. Hence his current need for Adam to lie about his serving experience and get him on Hell’s Kitchen. Rent was coming up and two plush paychecks from Fox would more than cover it.

“This combines 5 star dining with reality television,” Blake murmured, eyeing the cameramen and lighting crew. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Don’t worry about the cameras,” Adam said. “They won’t focus on us anyway.”

“Unless we fuck up,” Christina said. Blake gulped while Adam glared. A cameraman obliviously set up nearby.

“This is a good gig,” Adam said. Blake forced himself to focus solely on his intent boyfriend. The hustle of the Fox crew partially faded. “We have way more servers than necessary so anyone can cover you if needed. Plus customers don’t know whether or not to leave a tip since this is a show so we usually get a nice bonus on top of what Hell’s Kitchen pays us."

“Gordon Ramsay usually feeds the servers whatever is leftover when the customers finally leave unless he's too pissed off. He can work himself into quite a state,” Christina said. She stared pointedly at Adam before turning back to her pocket mirror and fixed her lipstick. “I can’t believe you forgot the most important part of working here.”

“Some of the customers are important people we can manipulate into listening to our promo CDs?” Adam asked.

“Well, obviously but—”

“ _The_ _drama_ ,” Adam said, clutching his heart. Christina rolled her eyes.

“Isn’t that all manufactured?” Blake asked, vaguely recalling the many screaming matches he witnessed while attempting to catch glimpses of Adam on TV.

“A good portion but tensions run high in the kitchens even without a quarter of a million on the line,” Christina said, “especially with a screaming Gordon Ramsay.”

The empty red and blue mega kitchen flickered innocently as the crew adjusted the lighting. Blake glanced down at his watch. Almost show time.

“So many genuine breakdowns,” Adam said dreamily.

“So much future PTSD,” Christina said. “Hell’s Kitchen would make for a good drinking game if we weren’t working.”

“It’s why we need viewing parties,” Adam said. “I told you this.”

Christina nodded, smoothing her black apron. “We can steal my neighbor’s cable. I’ll just wear my booty shorts when I ask him.”

“I’ll bring booze.”

Blake tore his gaze away from the newly arrived Gordon Ramsay—casually talking to an executive producer and not looking remotely like someone who screamed at people for a living—to stare at Christina and Adam high-fiving. “You concern me.”

“Game time!” The blonde producer’s call pierced the air, causing a momentary lull. The camera crew stepped back to their posts and Gordon Ramsay disappeared through the thin glass doors separating the dining area from the kitchens—which was suddenly filled with chef hopefuls—as customers trickled in. Some people’s wardrobe was worth more than Blake’s last few paychecks combined.

“Time for that southern charm, babe,” Adam said.

His heart raced as Jean-Philippe greeted the guests and charmingly collected their cellphones, reminding everyone of the confidentiality agreements they signed between amusing Hell’s Kitchen anecdotes. The guests chortled at the appropriate moments and eventually made it to their seats. Then the other servers, including Adam and Christina, unanimously straightened and clicked their pens and his nerves impossibly heightened. A muffled yell from Gordon Ramsay could already be heard over the guests’ polite clapping.

Blake wiped his sweaty palms on his apron.

Adam’s nudge jolted him back to reality. Blake blinked. “Those are your tables. Come to me or Christina if you have any issues.”

“Not Jean-Philippe?” The other servers already moved smoothly to their tables, toothy grins flashing around the room.

Adam snorted softly. “Jean-Philippe will be otherwise engaged as his lips will be firmly planted on the VIP asses.”

Blake’s laugh was embarrassingly strangled.

Adam nudged him again. “You got this. It’s food, not rocket science.”

“Right.” Blake took a deep breath and walked towards his tables, grateful to see Adam’s section adjacent to his. All of his tables were intimidatingly sleek and uppity, the only reprieve appeared to be the family with the friendly, if somewhat stern, looking elderly couple at the head of the table.

“Hey, I’m Blake and I’ll be taking care of y’all tonight,” Blake said to his spritzy table of women, not a single one over 30. All eyes turned to him. “First time at Hell’s Kitchen? Mine too.”

Their giggles immediately put him at ease.  

Blake breezed through the rest of his tables’ drink orders, cumbersomely jotting down their appetizer selection his next trip and handing the tickets to the intimidating chef next to Ramsay, who Adam referred to as Bonbon. He ignored Blake when he asked for her real name. Apparently, it was not Bonnie. Blake already received a judgmental stare. Not-Bonnie gave Adam a dotting smile though.

Ten minutes later, following Adam’s suggestion, he obtained his tables’ other course orders and kept them firmly in his apron. Handing Not-Bonnie the other meal tickets before their appetizers were finished would only lead to his obliteration.

“Getting the hang of this so nicely, babe,” Adam said as Blake leaned against a nearby column. Some servers floated between the tables while others lingered by the walls. There wasn't much to do until appetizers were up beside keeping drinks refilled.

“You beating the menu items into my head helped a lot,” Blake said.

“Makes it easier,” Adam said, playing with the end of Blake’s tie. “I knew your hillbilly ass wouldn’t know half the French dishes on there.”

“Fuck you, I’m cultured,” Blake said mildly.

“Our dog’s nutsack is more cultured than you.”

Blake swatted Adam away from his tie, ignoring his immediate pout. “Says the punk rocker covered in tattoos.”

Adam scowled adorably. “I don’t do punk. Don’t be an asshole.”

Christina sidled next to Adam. “So I have three creepers, five people determined to get wasted, and at least two tables treating me like I’m scum and they’re big money.”

“Which tables?” Adam asked.

“22 and 25,” Christina said, which meant nothing to Blake but Adam immediately locked onto them.

Adam scoffed. “Bitch in blue has a visible tag on her dress. You should politely tear that off for her.”

Christina’s smile sharpened. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time she’s even slightly condescending.”

“Are you an alcoholic?” yelled a voice Blake previously only heard scream on TV.  “How can you not taste the white wine overpowering the risotto? It’s a fucking disgrace.”

_Clang._

Blake was one of the few servers that flinched at the loud crash of metal on metal.

“Always the fucking risotto,” Adam tsked, as the red team scurried back to their stations as soon as Ramsay turned away, the rejected risotto sitting forlornly on a metal table.

“Just a splash of white wine,” Christina said. “A splash. You think they would practice.”

“Their dream is only to be a master chef,” Adam said. “Asking them to put forth effort and practice is a bit much.”

"Clearly," Christina snorted. “I swear, I could do better blindfolded.”

Adam’s face turned thoughtful. “Maybe we could give the booze risotto to your heavy drinkers.”

“They won’t even know white wine is in it.”

“They’re so intense already,” Blake said, ignoring Adam and Christina in favor of watching the chef teams yell cooking times and orders at each other. Ramsay stood in between the red and blue kitchens, poised for striking and promptly ripping apart a team’s morale.

“It is a competition.” Christina shrugged. “Brings out the worst in everyone.”

“I didn’t think the yelling would start so soon...” Blake trailed off. Some poor sap on blue team dropped a spatula onto the floor and his face immediately whitened.

“Yelling is the norm of every kitchen. Hell’s Kitchen just takes it to an obnoxiously high level,” Adam said. He grimaced as he pushed away from the wall. “Time to smile and fill drinks. Red team is handling our food and, as everyone heard, our appetizers are delayed.”

“Oh well,” Christina said. “It’s time to take the soup anyway.”

The trio departed, most other red table servers following suit to preemptively smooth any ruffled feathers. Blake teased and joked his way through any concerns with relative ease. The only irritated table was the elderly couple and their family, proving Blake’s first impression sadly incorrect.

The next twenty minutes alternated between Adam, Blake, and Christina gawking at the screams from the kitchen—well, Blake gawked. Adam and Christina cackled—and mocking customers, filling drinks, and cracking jokes. Of course, the red tables clearly watching the blue tables enjoy their appetizers—including the risotto—made some customers nearly impossible to appease. Thankfully, the red kitchen finally finished appetizers and red table customers could be content for at least the next ten minutes.

Entrée orders flooded the red kitchen with the vain hope that their orders would be finished quicker than the appetizers.

“This should be fun,” Adam said, ducking by the column Blake already dubbed as theirs. “They can’t cook lamb worth shit.”

“What?” Blake asked.

Adam turned emphatically. “Half the lamb meals will be undercooked. I guarantee it.” He rolled his eyes. “Amateurs.”

Blake stared.

“Lamb? Just think about the scallops,” Christina said. “Those are impossible for them to cook correctly the first time and I had an entire table order them.”

Adam and some nearby servers groaned sympathetically. Blake’s frowned deepened as Adam sneered.

“It’s like it’s impossible for them to evenly cook something,” Adam said. “Actually _watch_ the meat and don’t be a dumbass. It’s not that difficult.”

“It’s Hell’s Kitchen,” Christina said. “They’ll remain dumbasses until at least the final 10.”

“Getting even semi-decent food this early on would take a miracle."

Blake stared. It seemed a common theme for the night. “The most complicated thing I’ve ever seen you cook is ramen noodles.”

Adam blinked at Blake’s interruption then scowled when his comment—which most definitely didn’t contribute to their chef bashing—sunk in. “So? Doesn’t mean I don’t have a selective palate.”

Blake’s stare turned incredulous. “You literally ate a sandwich you found in the trash.”

“Ew,” Christina said. “Have standards. What the fuck.”

“One, it was a full 6 inch, _uneaten_ BLT, and two, it was _wrapped_ ,” Adam said. “It’s not like it was basking in dumpster juices.”

Christina scrunched her nose. “You still ate a dumpster sub.”

“It was _wrapped_.”

Christina shook her head at Blake. “I can’t believe you kiss him. You have no idea where his mouth has been.”

“It’s like playing Russian Roulette,” Blake said grimly. "At least he has a nice face so that’s going for him.”

Adam glared. “The sub was _wrapped_.”

“A thin paper wrap isn’t the impregnable shield you seem to think it is,” Blake said. “Now I’m feeling like you shouldn’t have dropped out of college.”

“Oh fuck off,” Adam said. “At least I finished high school.”

Blake frowned. “I did finish high school.”

“I know,” Adam said. “That was aimed at Christina.”

The blonde glared. “I’m not the one who ate trash. Do you really want to get into an intellectual competition right now?”

“Blue team, come here,” Ramsay yelled. The trio glanced at the mega kitchen. Honestly, they were due for another Ramsay explosion. The last one was maybe four minutes ago. “Who the fuck cooked this chicken? The inside is still raw!”

“Ooh the chicken,” Christina said, scowl instantly lightening. “I forgot to worry about the chicken.”

“What dumbass can’t cook chicken?” Adam asked.

“You,” Blake said. Adam glared.

“These are ‘professionals.’ They cook for a living,” Christina said. “And yet...”

“I grilled that shit before,” Adam said, “but I know your southern ass is too obsessed with fried chicken to remember.”

“I didn’t realize chicken was such a rare delicacy that none of them had any experience with it,” Christina tsked. Janet nodded.

Blake took a step back and Adam’s eyes lit triumphantly. “KFC is disgusting. How dare you.”

“Do you want to know why the chicken crossed the road?” Ramsay yelled. “Because you didn’t fucking cook it!”

“Besides eggs, ramen, and spaghetti, I can’t think of a single thing you can cook,” Blake said, aggressively counting each item with his fingers.

“I made burritos for you one time.” Adam had the gall to sound offended.

“Sorry, clearly you’re a cooking guru,” Blake drawled.

“Hey, fuck you. When was the last time you cooked something?” Adam asked.

“I’m not the one bashing chefs,” Blake said, immediately backtracking. Adam’s cooking skills left much to be desired, but they still put Blake’s to shame.

“Calling them chefs is a bit generous,” Christina said. Adam high-fived her, hazel eyes never drifting away from Blake.

“Attack my cooking skills—” Adam began heatedly.

“Calling them cooking skills is also a bit generous,” she said.

“And I’ll attack yours,” he said, shooting Christina a withering glare. She just smiled. “Or lack thereof.”

“It’s just mocking the chefs for something you can’t do—” Blake started.

“The teams suck at something they dream of doing,” Adam said. “They always do, useless fucks.”

“Ok, mini Ramsay,” Blake said.

“Red team isn’t doing too bad actually,” Christina said. “Their dishes might—”

A fire burst on one of the red kitchen’s oven. One contestant screamed while the focused redhead manning the oven whacked the flames out with her towel.

“Damnit Christina,” Adam said as Ramsay stormed over. He threw the ruined meat into the trashcan as he started shouted. “This is why we don’t say anything. Jinx us again and you owe us drinks.”

Red servers grumbled nearby and Christina looked as abashed as she ever could.

“Adam’s boyfriend,” Janet said, “is table 32 in your section?”

“Uh...” He knew Adam went over the table numbers when they first arrived but Blake was too busy staring at camera lenses to pay attention. And with Adam ushering him to his tables at the beginning, Blake didn’t bother to memorize the numbers.

“Yeah,” Adam said. “Why?”

Janet jerked her head back. “They’re pissy. Fix it.”

“Can’t go to Jean-Phillippe?” Adam drawled. Blake searched only to find Jean-Phillippe floating between two semi-secluded booths. He then did a double take. Was that Stan Lee?

Janet snorted as she walked away, the blue team irritatingly already serving entrees. “Right. You’re cute.”

Adam grimaced at a table in Blake’s section. Blake glanced between tables. No one looked too upset.

“Which one is 32?” Blake asked.

“Family with the grandparents,” Adam said. Blake found them. Oops. Yeah, the old man was definitely glaring. “Wait, did you not put their table number on the meal ticket?”

“Uh...no?”

“Blake,” Adam scolded. Blake shrugged helplessly. He thought he forgot something important.

Christina poked Adam. “You fix the tickets with Bonbon. Blake, handle the customers.”

“Wait, you can call her Bonbon too?” Blake asked. He heard literally no one but Adam call the chef that. Christina just rolled her eyes.

“Customers,” Christina said, shoving them both away. “Handle it.”

Blake walked towards the elderly table with what he hoped was a confident stride. The old man’s stink eye only worsened. Every single person at that table looked like they sucked on an extremely sour lemon, but the core of the irritation was definitely the elderly couple. Janet handed him a water pitcher as he passed. She floated away too quickly for him to do more than shoot her a hopefully grateful grimace.

“How y’all doing? Your drinks looked like they need attention,” Blake said. He accent thickened when he was nervous. Sue him. He began refilling the half-empty water glasses.

“Not the only thing that needs attention,” the old man grumbled. “Where is our food? We’ve been here over an hour and got nothing.”

Besides soup, salad, appetizers, and consistent complimentary bread. Yes, clearly they were starving.

“I’m sorry sir,” Blake said. “Your entrees are still being prepared in the kitchen.”

Another loud clang echoed through the glass walls.

The old man scoffed. “If I knew how slow this fucking meal was I would’ve never bought tickets. This is ridiculous.”

A few nearby red tables glanced their way. Of course, without dinner to distract them, they could really only enjoy the show. Blake shifted around the table, using drink refills as an excuse to get further from the angry man.

“I’m sorry,” Blake said. He wished he was more familiar with Hell’s Kitchen. He had no idea what types of strings, if any, he was capable of pulling.

“I don’t need your fucking apologies!” the old man shouted. More eyes focused on them. Not Jean-Philippee’s though. Because of course not. “I need results. You’re ruining our family dinner.”

Blake glanced at the rest of the table. Only two people seemed embarrassed by the man’s outburst. The man’s wife glowered at Blake while the others seemed vindictively pleased. Douchebaggery really was genetic. Blake wiped his clammy free hand on his apron.

“I am trying—”

“How fucking hard can your job be?” the man sneered. “You’re a waiter. All you need to do is smile, not be an idiot, refill our drinks, and _give us food_. Right now, you’re only succeeding at one of those.”

A cold sweat broke out on Blake’s forehead. He never dealt well with yelling, especially one-on-one. And especially in an environment where he couldn’t respond without serious ramifications like not getting his full paycheck. He swallowed. Or ruining this gig for Adam.

“Dumbass,” the old woman muttered. This couple really suited each other, Christ.

“I can, uh...”

“I just confirmed with kitchen that your entrees will be out in ten minutes,” Adam said, swooping in from behind like a Godsend. All eyes, including a very grateful boyfriend’s, turned to the newly arrived and entirely professional Adam. “So sorry for the delay. Hell’s Kitchen doesn’t have the experienced staff that usually runs 5-star kitchens. These waits are, unfortunately, a risk that comes with a Hell’s Kitchen meal.”

“It’s ridiculous,” the old man snapped.

“It is,” Adam agreed. “I’ll get you a complimentary bottle of wine for your patience.”

The old man nodded firmly. “You better.”

“Of course, sir,” Adam said. His fake grin faded as he turned to Blake. “You ok?”

Blake nodded, feeling embarrassed. “Just...didn’t know what to do.”

“Get the tea pitcher and refill more drinks,” Adam said, straightening Blake’s collar. “I’ll get the wine, babe.”

Blake nodded again, oblivious to the old man’s double take at Adam’s pet name, and walked towards the back wall. Adam disappeared to the other side of the room. Servers threw him sympathetic looks, some muttering about asshole customers as he grabbed a pitcher of tea.

“It happens,” Christina said, “and don’t worry. Adam is getting them our worst wine. We save the cheap shit for situations like this.”

He just released a breath, glancing back at the table and the old man’s glares. What was his problem? He already got free wine and probably a rush on his order. Some people were just born angry.

“I’m just looking forward to not dealing with them.”

“Put on a smile and pretend to be deaf. And remember they're people too,” Christina said. Blake threw her a confused look. She just smiled. “So they'll eventually die.”

He snorted, the tightness in his chest easing slightly. “True.” He gripped the tea pitcher and began his trek back to Satan’s table. It was a shame he couldn’t cowardly trade the table with someone, but the only person willing to trade would be Adam and he couldn’t do that to his boyfriend.

However, his planned silent but diligently polite presence was ruined as soon as he stepped up to refill the wife’s cup.

“I don’t want a fag like you handling our food,” the old man said, spiteful and unexpected.

Blake froze. “What?”

The old man scoffed, while the rest of the table sneered. Only a couple younger people at the other end looked horrified but made no move to intervene. “A _fag_ like yourself. Why don’t you and your fairy bitch go suck cock in the back while the rest of us _normal_ people eat food.”

What the actual fuck. Blake gaped.

“Unless you’re the bitch in your disgusting relationship,” the old man said. “The other flamer did come to your rescue last time.”

Nearby tables murmured but Blake barely registered it, too focused on the prejudice asshole in front of him. LA was very accepting generally. Clearly, it spoiled him as Blake hadn’t dealt with this type of aggressive bigotry for a while.

“You don’t—”

“Don’t talk to me,” the old man snapped. “I want a _natural_ waiter.”

“Is there a problem?” Adam asked, emptyhanded. He glared at the old man.

Adam’s presence only egged on the old man. “Your kind makes me sick.”

“So do assholes,” Adam said.  The professional server was gone and only his pissed boyfriend remained. Blake shifted closer to Adam, unsure whether to whisk him away or back him. Blake was livid, but Adam’s temper was so much more volatile.

“You have no right to—”

“You know, it’s a shame cheating cunts like you can get married, yet it’s offensive if gay people even think about it,” Adam said. And backing his boyfriend by glaring at the table won. Really only the tiny, financial part of his brain protested. And even that protest was feeble at best.

The old man bristled. “Marriage is a sacred event between—”

“Don’t you love how he defends marriage but not cheating?” Adam asked. He glanced at the old man’s wife. “Lucky woman.”

“Don’t talk to my wife, fag!” the old man shouted.

“Oh should I turn my attention to your son? You know us gays can’t resist any dick, even if a terrible person is attached to it. We are a shallow group of people,” Adam said. Then his mocking edge hardened. “You’re such a fucking small-minded—”

“How dare you speak to me this way,” the old man said. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“A homophobic asshole,” Adam said.

The man straightened. “I am head of—”

“Fuck all,” a British voice finished. Both Adam and the old man froze while Blake just gaped at the celebrity chef, so far away from his usual perch in the kitchen. Blake realized most of the restaurant gawked at them. The chef scowled. “What the fuck is going on here?”

The old man recovered quickly. “Your restaurant is run by a bunch of amateurs. It’s ridiculous for us to wait this long and—”

“Not about your food, you twat,” Gordon Ramsay snapped. “I meant why are you harassing my waiters?”

A flood of relief filled Blake. Ramsay was on their side.

“Last time I checked, this was America,” the old man said. “I can say whatever I God damn please.”

Gordon’s face twisted. “You’re in Hell’s Kitchen. I make the rules here and I don’t like prejudice pricks yelling at decent people.”

“Are you a faggot too?” the old man asked, all sense of self-preservation vanishing. It was almost impressive considering even his wife was shaking her head desperately. “It’s spreading like a disease.”

“I don’t have to be gay to know you’re a donkey’s cock,” Gordon said. “Though that’s an insult to donkey’s cocks everywhere.”

The old man sputtered but Gordon Ramsay, in all his angry British glory, talked over him. Blake glanced at Adam but his boyfriend was enraptured.

“I despise prejudice,” Gordon said “and will not fucking tolerate a miserable disgrace like you eating in my restaurant. You will leave now with the little dignity you have left or security will force you. Either way, fuck off.”

The old man glanced at his family for the first time, as if finally realizing he was fighting a losing battle. “I deserve—”

“You don’t deserve scraps I’d feed my dogs,” Ramsay said. “Now get the hell out of Hell’s Kitchen, you wanker. Security! Escort them out.”

A dozen men in all black appeared out of nowhere and loomed over the table. Some of the family members jumped up. The old man yelled as soon as the security touched him.

“I spent a ton of money for this fagfest,” the old man shouted. “You _will_ hear from my lawyers.”

“I don’t care about your fucking money,” Gordon shouted. “Jean, take care of our esteemed fat fucks.” Gordon turned to Adam and Blake. Both flinched. “Chaps, follow me.”

The old man’s insults as security led him out the doors fell on flat ears and only made other customers scowl. The majority of the customers gawked at the trio weaving through the tables, their murmurs growing into a loud buzz. Gordon stopped his march by a secluded area near the kitchens, all the nearby servers fleeing after Gordon's glared. The blue team cooked on the other side of the glass, pretending that they weren’t sneaking glances.

Gordon’s face was impassive as Adam and Blake fidgeted in front of him. Gordon was hardly the calmest boss—was he even their boss?—but at least whatever he said would be away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers.

“I’m sorry about that,” Gordon said.

Oh thank Christ. Blake let out a relieved sigh while Adam relaxed next to him.

Gordon raised an eyebrow. “Were you expecting for me to say something else?”

“I mean, I thought maybe you’d reprimand me on, uh, how I responded,” Adam said, licking his lips when Gordon turned his full attention on him. “I’ve been fired over smaller things.”

Gordon scoffed. “Please, everyone’s heard worse from me. You had a reason to respond how you did. Honestly, he didn’t get nearly what he deserved, but some people are beyond hope. We can only hope that public humiliation taught him to at least quiet down.”

“Doubt it, to be honest,” Adam said, “but maybe his family will try to muzzle him in the future.”

“Now if you responded physically things would be different.” Gordon clapped his hands. “But you didn’t so it’s fine.”

“He was a bit old for an impromptu fight,” Adam said.

“Plus you’re a shitty fighter,” Blake said, speaking for the first time since the old man started yelling slurs. Adam shifted so he bumped against his arm.

“Be more supportive,” Adam said. “I went all knight in shining armor on your ass.”

“And getting beat up by an old asshole would ruin that, don’t you think?” Blake asked.

“Now hang around after the show,” Gordon said. “I’ll make you two some actual decent food made by yours truely.”

“Really?” Adam asked.

Gordon just smiled. “Oh and you’re not getting fired or passive-aggressively not hired on for any of our other shows. I’ll talk to the producers to ensure you’re hired on the rest of this season.”

“That’s really—thanks,” Adam said. “You’re being incredible about this.”

“No need for to punish you over an asshole,” Gordon said. “Besides, I like people who have their priorities straight. Good luck the rest of the night, chaps. I’ll try and wrangle the kitchen together so they move at a somewhat decent pace. You two relax for a bit. Get your thoughts together before you go back out there.”

Gordon Ramsay stared until Blake nodded minutely. Then the chef reached and clapped both of them on the shoulders.

“Chins up, I doubt anyone would even dare to be worse than those wankers,” he said. Gordon Ramsay gave them a final smile before marching through the glass doors and into the mega kitchen. “My absence wasn’t meant as a break for you lot!”

Blake wrapped an arm around Adam. “That was awesome.”

“Right? Gordon Ramsay fucking tore them apart,” Adam said. “And he’s going to cook us shit. Personally. What the fuck?”

“No, I meant you,” Blake said. Adam blinked. “You’re always there when I need you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re too nice. I blame your southern upbringing,” Adam said. “Someone has to pick up your slack.”

“And you’re all too willing,” Blake said. “Just, thanks. You didn’t know if that would ruin this gig for you, but you didn’t care.”

“That was less me being valiant and more me losing my filter, but you know,” Adam said. “It’s not like I’d let the douche get away with insulting you.”

“Us, you mean,” Blake said.

Adam shrugged. “It’s all the same. Now come on, let’s bat our eyes and induce sympathy and guilty tips from the rest of our tables.”

Blake laughed. “This is a pretty great job.”

“I would never lead you astray.”

 

_Many seasons later..._

Adam, Blake, Christina, and Pharrell sat in the secluded, yet subtlety on display VIP booths. Christina’s dress was easily the most expensive thing in this makeshift restaurant and Pharrell’s maroon suit was oddly complimentary. Adam and Blake’s more casual outfits did little to broadcast their wealth, but their judging on The Voice ensured everyone in Hell’s Kitchen knew exactly who they were.  

Jean-Philippe was replaced by another charming European and Adam honestly couldn’t remember his name, even though he introduced himself at the beginning of the meal and made routine visits past their table.

But the core of the show, Gordon Ramsay, remained. Because obviously. Without Ramsay Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t Hell’s Kitchen.

As soon as Adam purchased their tickets, Gordon contacted him and invited them to drinks afterwards. Apparently, this chef group was quite draining. Adam was just excited to chat with Gordon. He owed the celebrity chef a lot. It was Gordon’s connections that led to a music studio meeting that produced Maroon 5’s first album. Christina was signed soon after him while Blake was snatched up by a country music producer.

“So you used to work here,” Pharrell said, staring at the red and blue kitchens and imposing pitchfork. Gordon’s muffled yells already attracted the attention of Hell’s Kitchen newbs. So everyone except for the crew, servers, contestants, and Adam, Blake, and Christina. 

“Oh yeah,” Adam said. “It was great.”

“It’s how I met Adam and Blake, actually,” Christina said. “Little known fact.”

“Not really,” Adam said. “You told that to all the interviewers who always thought we were dating.”

“I thought it would lead them to your and Blake’s so lovely viral clip quicker,” Christina said. “It didn’t. So I had to tweet out the link.”

The viral clip of the old dickbag’s homophobic rant, Adam’s response, and of course Gordon Ramsay made it into that Hell’s Kitchen episode. He was irritated he didn’t even realize that was a possibility despite the fact they were surrounded by cameras. At least he and Blake got a nice bonus for it. Plus that viral clip was how Blake’s manager found him and eventually got him signed.

By the time Adam and Blake were famous, the viral clip was years old—practically a decade in internet time—and people didn’t connect the gay Hell’s Kitchen servers to the popular frontman and country star. Until Christina.

“Yeah, thanks for the warning,” Adam said.

Christina shrugged. “Blake said he didn’t care.”

“It was hashtag throwback Thursday,” Blake said. 

“Stop hashtagging everything,” Adam said. “You’re not a teenage girl.”

“But throwback Thursday is an actual hashtag,” Blake said. “Christina taught it to me.”

“Stop blindly trusting her,” Adam said.

“But it is an actual hashtag,” Pharrell said. “Hashtag for reals.”

Adam gave Pharrell an unimpressed look. He smiled, fixing his hat.

“Besides, you wanted a casual way to come out,” Christina said, “since your and Blake’s dates were constantly dubbed as ‘bros being bros.’ ”

“We even fucking held hands at some point,” Adam said. “Yet the paps and tabloids were weirdly in denial.”

“So I provided the best solution as always,” Christina said. “You’re welcome.”

Adam rolled his eyes. “You’re so fucking cocky.”

She just smiled sweetly. “I learned from the best. So what are you ordering?”

“Risotto as an appetizer,” Adam said.

“Obviously,” Christina said. “I’m getting their chicken and shrimp.”

“Nice, I can see them fucking up one of those meats for sure.”

“Right?”

“What’s happening?” Pharrell asked Blake.

Blake skimmed the menu. “Making the contestants’ lives more stressful.”

“And I’m thinking scallops as my entree, but only if someone else gets them too,” Adam said.

“I can definitely go for scallops,” Christina said.

“By ordering?” Pharrell asked.

Blake threw him an amused look. “By ordering dishes the chefs are notorious for screwing up. Of course, this batch could’ve evolved since our day.”

“Because the only thing more difficult than them not burning or undercooking the scallops—” Adam said.

A crash came from the kitchen. Some soup splashed onto the floor.

Blake raised his eyebrows at the panicking blue team. “But that’s doubtful.”

“Is them sending out multiple scallop dishes that are the same quality,” Christina said. “Oh my God, Adam they have lamb. Someone needs to get it. Pharrell? Blake?”

“We’re not supporting your schemes,” Blake said.

Christina turned an expectant gaze towards Pharrell.

“I’m getting the pork,” Pharrell said apologetically.

She huffed.

“Their lamb is shit, anyway,” Blake confided to Pharrell. “You think at least one contestant would be bound to know how to cook it but nope.”

“Really?” Pharrell asked.

Blake suddenly looked at the distracted, scheming Adam and Christina. "Do not tell them I said that. I can't openly support their chef bashing."

"Your secret is safe with me."

“Christina, we’re so stupid,” Adam said. “We’re rich now. We’ll just get lamb and scallops.”

Her eyes immediately brightened. “This is why I keep you around.”

Blake chuckled.

“You fucking donkeys!” Gordon yelled. “This is soup. How the hell are you useless sacks of yankee shits fucking this up? You’re an embarrassment!”

Adam sighed. “This brings back a lot of good memories.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t watch too much Hell’s Kitchen. You watched too much Hell’s Kitchen. 
> 
> Also, the Gordon chicken joke comes from a clever Tumblr post I wish I could find and credit. The joke always cracked me up so I knew I had to include it here.


End file.
